Full Moon
by hedgehogandotter
Summary: An 11 year old Sherlock and John start their first year at Hogwarts, ten years after the Second Wizarding War. Things have changed since Harry Potter left his school, but that does not mean things at Hogwarts are safe and sound... (This is the first of seven (short?) books - which can be read individually. The House they are in is necessary for the story. Please don't be cross. :3
1. Books, wands and every flavour beans

**1. Books, Wands and Every Flavour Beans**

Sherlock looked around his room. It had already gained a thin layer of dust and it bore a sense of neglect – though that last might be because he never paid much attention to his room. Usually, the maid would come and wave her wand and everything would automatically clean itself up. But soon he'd be on his way, and he wouldn't have to look twice at the mess in his room that he made two hours after cleaning already.

Sherlock sighed – he had refused to let his mother dress his room in blue and bronze; he didn't want such an obvious statement of identity. To be honest, he wasn't even sure he was supposed to be a Ravenclaw. They were supposed to be intelligent and clever, and while Sherlock certainly was both, he didn't care about knowledge and certain trivial facts – something Ravenclaws wouldn't dream of doing. Mycroft – _oh, good, perfect Mycroft_ – would surely disapprove. In fact, he did – nothing Sherlock ever did could satisfy his fifteen year-old brother, who had received a prefect badge that morning on top of everything. If Sherlock could only avoid getting sorted in Ravenclaw...

One week and it would be the first of September. One week and he'd know.

But before it was that time, he had to get his books and potions ingredients, robes and a cauldron. Sherlock was looking forward to getting his wand; it would mean really being a part of the wizarding world, really being able to do all the wondrous things he heard his brother talk about (not that he hadn't nicked his wand before, but he just wanted one of his own). And there was only one place to get all the stuff he needed; Diagon Alley. The trip to the wizarding shopping area was due later that day and though Sherlock wanted to go alone, Mummy and Mycroft insisted he go with them.

He smoothed out his Hogwarts letter on his ebony desk and swept his eyes over the curving, written in green ink letters, signed by the Headmistress Minerva McGonagall. The desire Sherlock had to go to the wizarding school was overwhelming; he'd be free of his mum, his brother (to a certain extent, at least) and the big, empty house that was the Holmes manor. Sherlock closed his eyes and thought about his dad. Well, he thought about his portraits – moving, of course. He had died ten years ago during the final battle of the Second Wizarding War. Sherlock had only been about a year old, so he had close to no memories of him. His dad had been one of the few members of pureblood families to fight against the Death Eaters instead of with them. It made Sherlock proud, deep inside, to be the son of such brave a man, who had died defending not only his family, but the wizarding world as well. One thing Sherlock's mother kept repeating was that the Holmes manor hadn't been as quiet back then as it was now.

Sherlock jumped up from his contemplations when he heard his mother shriek from downstairs.

'Sherlock! We're going in ten minutes, make sure you're ready!'

Sherlock sighed and pushed his chair back with his feet. He put on the tattered black (well, almost grey) Converse sneakers Mycroft hated so much (and for that reason alone it was worth it), and he pulled his dark grey travelling cloak from his closet. Just in time he got downstairs to find his mother and Mycroft standing beside the big fireplace in the drawing room, travelling cloak and all.

'Ready, dear?' the forty year-old woman asked, hair in a messy, curly bun in her neck.

Sherlock nodded and stepped forward, grabbing a little bit of the Floo Powder she held out to him. He stepped into the fireplace, saying loud and clear; 'Diagon Alley!'

* * *

John went through his letter from Hogwarts one last time before he made to leave his room. It was a small, messy thing; a single bed was stuffed in the corner, a closet and a desk barely fitting against the wall opposite. Clothes, old books and other personal belongings were everywhere, scattered across the floor, chairs and desk. John sighed; he'd miss it. Though he was excited about going to Hogwarts, he would miss his tiny room, his tiny house and his mum, dad and sister.

He'd be going to Diagon Alley with his mum later on the day. It was his first time going; he'd never needed anything before and with his dad being a Muggle it was safer (according to his mum) to go as little as possible. Whenever his mother needed something, she'd go alone and John and Harriet were left waiting, wanting so badly to go along. And now it would be time for John (Harriet still had to wait two years) to see the amazing wizarding world and the school; it was time for him to become a wizard.

They had known before that John and Harriet were magical; John's mother had told his father that she was a witch very early on, before they started on kids, so he knew what he would be up against. And just like that, they had been raised part Muggle, part magical.

Before John could leave his room, a knock came on his door. Moments later John's dad came in, smiling at his son. John smiled back, feeling slightly awkward. 'Dad.'

'Son,' his dad replied, sitting on the edge of John's bed. He patted the space next to him and John followed his example. 'I want to wish you a safe trip and a good year.'

John frowned; he just remembered that his dad went on a business trip that day and wouldn't be able to see John off the next week. John nodded. 'Thanks, Dad.'

'And I know that this is all very exciting, but please don't get carried away. Please take care of yourself.'

'Of course,' John reassured him. 'I will, Dad, trust me.'

John's dad nodded and stood up; the bed groaned. He spread his arms awkwardly and John returned the hug. 'I'll miss you,' John said softly. His dad patted the back of his head.

'I'll miss you too, son,' he said.

They went downstairs together so John, Harriet and their mother could see him off. They shared one big family hug and that was it; Mr Watson was in the cab, on his way to the train station. John watched until it turned around the corner before he went inside the house again.

'How are we going to Diagon Alley?' John asked his mum.

'We can't risk Apparating,' she answered. 'You're too young and I've got to keep an eye on both you and Harry since there's no one to look after her now. Our hearth isn't connected to the Floo Network, so that means...'

'Muggle transport?' John said with a sigh. 'When?'

'When we've packed all our things and are ready to go,' his mother said with a wide grin.

John grinned back and immediately dashed upstairs to grab his backpack and his list of things he'd need at Hogwarts; robes, gloves, several books (such as _A History of Magic_ by Bathilda Bagshot), a cauldron, a set of brass scales and lastly, a wand. John grinned; he'd wanted a wand ever since his parents told him he could do magic.

Grinning like an idiot, he came back downstairs, where his mother and Harriet where already waiting. 'I'm ready,' he said.

And off they went, using the tube system to get to the Leaky Cauldron in London. It turned out to be a dark, quiet and utterly magnificent little café. John could feel the magic radiating off it, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. The fact that he could see it confirmed that he was a wizard and he was utterly happy.

There were two men behind the counter; one very small, with red hair, and the other big and quite fat, with grizzled grey hair and a messy beard of the same colour. They both smiled broadly as John, Harriet and their mother came in. She smiled back and led her children to the counter.

'Mrs Watson,' the fat man said happily in a heavy Scottish accent. 'Anything to drink?'

'No, Gary,' she replied, putting her hands on her children's shoulders. 'We're going to buy John's school stuff. The train to Hogwarts leaves next week.'

'Oh, right!' Gary said with a big grin. 'I should have known. So you're John, then?'

John nodded, feeling a bit awkward. 'Yeah.'

'Oh, you're gonna love it there. And a bit of mischief is never out of the question, eh?' Gary winked.

John grinned as the red haired man gave him a slap on the upper arm and chided, 'Gary!'

'I'm just joking, Billy,' Gary sniggered, but he winked at John again and now there was a definite smirk on John's face. His mother said goodbye to the two men and she led her children to the door behind the counter, which led to a small courtyard, furnished only by a few bins. She got her wand out – John almost made a whimpering noise; he wanted a wand _so _bad – and tapped a particular brick three times. John frowned in confusion, but soon his eyes widened in shock and wonder. The wall was _moving_.

It was actually moving; the bricks were rearranging themselves, forming a gigantic archway. And John stared.

The path before him was crowded with wizards and witches, who were dressed in cloaks and robes and pointy hats. Crooked little shops were on his right and left side, magic filling the air. There were shops with cauldrons, pets, brooms (John's mother had told him about the sport named Quidditch and John was very curious – he'd never seen it but judging from what his mother told him it sounded pretty damn awesome), owls, toads and cats, books, parchment, quills, an apothecary...

'Let's get our money first, shall we?' John's mother said and she smiled at her gaping children.

They approached a huge, white building, with big, bronze doors. Next to it stood a goblin, who looked at them without a trace of emotion. When they were past the set of double doors, they encountered another pair. John's mother whispered in his children's ear; 'Ten years ago, during the War, the goblins were severely repressed. It took a huge effort to convince them that they could continue running Gringotts, without any interfering of us. They still don't trust us, but it was better than five years ago...'

John frowned and looked at the silver doors in front of him, a text engraved in them.

_Enter, stranger, but take heed  
Of what awaits the sin of greed  
For those who take, but do not earn,  
Must pay most dearly in their turn.  
So if you seek beneath our floors  
A treasure that was never yours,  
Thief, you have been warned, beware  
Of finding more than treasure there_

'And Harry Potter really succeeded in stealing the Hufflepuff cup?' he asked his mother, still with that frown on his face. 'Especially with the fact that goblins don't like wizards much?'

Mrs Watson nodded. 'Dragon and all.'

John grinned and shook his head. All the stories about the legendary Boy Who Lived always seemed so farfetched, but they turned out to be true in the end. A boy, seventeen years of age, had defeated the darkest wizard of all times. It was awe-inspiring and John could never get enough of those stories.

They entered a long hall, where rows of goblins were seated on high stools, weighing big coins and gems and studying gold and silver. Mrs Watson walked purposefully towards one goblin. She showed the goblin her key wordlessly and, after a brief moment of inspection, he gave it back to her. He got the attention of another goblin and he walked up to the family, taking directions from the other goblin. He nodded and said, 'This way, please.'

The goblin led Mrs Watson and her children to a door tucked away in a corner. The room – or more like corridor – was cold, stone and dark, aside from a few torches lighting the way every few feet. The goblin trotted away in silence, gesturing for them to follow him. They walked for a little while until they came at a railway track. It took a few seconds for a kart to slide to them, and they got in with help of their mother.

The ride was fast and fun; John enjoyed the cold, damp wind in his face and the jerky movements the kart made. He loved the bouncy track, the way his body swayed with the corners and the climbs and the drops. Eventually it stopped though, and they got out again (Harry looking a bit green in the face) and they were in front of a simple door. The goblin asked for the key and opened it, revealing a small space with a reasonable amount of Galleons, Sickles and Knuts. Mrs Watson collected a few of them in a velvet pouch before thanking the goblin, who closed the door again.

The ride back was equally enjoyable for John, and he almost pouted when the kart jolted to a halt again. John made a mental note to get on a broom as fast as possible, even though first years weren't allowed a broom of their own at Hogwarts.

They walked down the white, stone porch of the wizarding bank, their pockets now full with money to spend. John looked around in glee, wanting to visit every single shop.

'What's on your list, dear?' his mother asked him. John fished his Hogwarts letter from his backpack and unfolded it. 'Robes,' he said, reading the first lines.

'Oh, then you'll need Madame Malkin's,' Mrs Watson said in a happy tone. 'That's that way. Come on...'

Madame Malkin's Robes For All Occasions was a cosy little shop, and John's heart thumped when he went in. He was about to buy his first things for Hogwarts.

'Hogwarts?' Madame Malkin asked in a friendly manner, her short frame dressed in lilac, dashing about the shop. 'Come, let's get your measurements done. Will only be a while. And, in what House do you think you'll be sorted in?'

'Well...' John stammered. 'My mother was in Gryffindor.'

'Fine House, Gryffindor is,' Madame Malkin said, nodding. 'Even Slytherin has improved on its students since the last ten years.'

John's robes were ready to go a few minutes later and they set out to Flourish and Blotts, the bookshop where he'd be able to buy all his books for his classes at Hogwarts. The enormous amount of books cramped in the tiny space distracted John and he could only look at the piles of old, new, colourful or brown books, stacked on top of each other or stuffed in a cabinet. John was so distractedly looking around him that he didn't notice the person in front of him. They collided and almost knocked a stack of leather-bound books over, but both remained on their feet.

'Sorry,' John mumbled, looking up. He saw a tall boy – a few inches taller than him – with wild, dark curls and piercing pale green eyes. 'You alright?'

'Yes,' the boy said, in a surprisingly deep voice. John estimated him about the same age as himself, but he couldn't be sure; after all, he _was _tall and his face was very angular, with prominent cheekbones. 'You?'

'I'm okay,' John said, a small smile creeping on his face. He held out his hand and his smile broadened when the boy took it. His hand was warm, coming as a surprise to John, who had expected a cold touch from the pale boy. 'John,' John said.

'Sherlock.'

'Well, nice to meet you. I've, uh... got to get my books.'

'Yes.'

And John couldn't be sure, but he though he saw a smile on the boy's face. John smiled briefly and walked away, searching for his books. He could feel the boy stare at him for a while after, but soon he too turned his back and walked out of the shop.

John was carrying a heavy box of books when they were done, and the stuff kept piling up; his potions ingredients from the apothecary, his crystal phials, his cauldron and his set of scales along with his robes. They spread the load with the three of them and soon there was only one stop left; Ollivander's wand shop.

The door creaked as he opened it (John wondered why any door in the wizarding world should creak) and he entered the shaggy, narrow store. His mother and sister sat down on the wobbly chairs in the corner, while John stepped forward to the counter without needing his mother to urge him on. It was time to get his wand.

John coughed nervously and an old man appeared from around the corner, where loads of rectangular boxes could be seen, stuffed on top and beside each other. He was thin, which was accentuated by the heavy robes he was wearing, his hair was thin and white and fuzzy and his eyes were very, very pale with age and experience and mystery.

It must be Ollivander.

John fought the urge to kneel, or bow, or something. The stories he'd heard about the wandmaker were incredible and sometimes horrible; how he'd sold thousands of wands, how he'd sold two of them to the most famous wizards in history, how he'd been abducted by one of them, threatened by him, almost killed by him, and saved by the other. And even though Ollivander had helped Voldemort, the wizarding world still held an enormous amount of respect for him because he hadn't done it willingly, and he'd helped Harry Potter in return.

'I, ah... Came to get my wand.'

The pale eyes focused on John and Ollivander smiled. 'Ah... John Watson, isn't it? Oh, I remember the day I got your mother here... Oh, there she is! Pear and unicorn hair, wasn't it? How's it doing?' he asked, and he smiled when Mrs Watson held up her wand, sparks shooting out of the end. 'Excellent. Now, let's find you one, shall we?'

John nodded and smiled. 'Please.'

Ollivander waved his wand at some tools, which John later recognised as a tapeline. They swirled around him and started measuring. Ollivander scurried off into the hallway he'd just come from, dragging his long fingers over the dusty boxes, pulling some out, muttering under his breath.

John tried out several wands, but none felt right. But it didn't take long before he finally had success.

Ollivander held out quite a long wand, and the moment John grabbed it he could feel a tingle go through his body, all the way to his toes. A warm feeling went to his heart and he smiled; so this was his wand.

Ollivander smiled a bright smile. 'Ah! A nice wand, very nice indeed. Cedar and unicorn hair, reasonably pliant, eleven point eight inches. It'll do very nicely for you, Mr Watson.'

John felt proud and he inspected his wand a little bit closer. It was an elegant little thing; the cedar wood was smooth and polished, there were no lumps or dimples. The tip was sharp and the handle firm.

Ollivander put it into a brand new box, far from the old and dusty one it had been in before. John gave him seven Galleons and Ollivander waved them off.

It was late when they returned to their house. John delightedly took all his stuff upstairs with him and for the rest of the day, he didn't get out of his room. He studied his books (it was probably the first and only time he would open _A History of Magic_), he packed his trunk in advance, just so he could arrange everything and touch it and stare at it for a moment longer, and he sat by the caged tawny owl his mother had bought for him. He'd name it Bertie; it was the name of his mother's brother, who had died in the Second Wizarding War ten years ago. He was already scratching behind its ears and talking to it. The owl stared at him with wide eyes and John was so happy, he couldn't wait until it was the first of September.

* * *

Sherlock inspected his wand; sycamore and dragon heartstring, twelve and a half inches, unyielding. It felt right to hold it in his hands, it felt warm.

Sherlock smirked; he wasn't on Hogwarts yet, they couldn't expel him from a school he'd never been. He walked around his room and found a small statue of a centaur. He picked it up gingerly and smashed it on the floor. It broke in a thousand pieces and Sherlock chuckled; he'd never liked the hideous Christmas present from Mycroft. He wondered if he'd broken it beyond repair, but then he shook his head; he'd seen his mum fix things way further gone. Sherlock lifted his wand, pointed it at the bits and pieces of marble, and whispered, heart thumping in his throat; '_Reparo_.'

The shards moved a bit, but they didn't repair themselves instantly and spotlessly. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and tried again, focusing on a repaired statue in his mind. This time, the bits did repair themselves, latching on the nearest piece without hesitation. Sherlock smiled; he could get used to this.

He turned around, putting his wand on his desk. He grabbed one of his newly purchased books and flung himself on the bed with it, starting to read intently. It was his Potions book, and he found it much more interesting than he'd hoped; there were not only recipes for potions but also information about those potions and their ingredients. Sherlock found himself helplessly intrigued and by midnight he was still reading, researching and occasionally experimenting. His desire to go to Hogwarts was getting stronger the more he read and he couldn't wait for next week.

Sherlock put away his books around three AM and went to sleep thinking of his oncoming journey to the wizarding school. Sherlock smiled; he dreamt happily.

* * *

The days flew by, though not as fast as Sherlock had hoped, and he kept himself occupied with reading his new schoolbooks and experimenting with his wand. But finally, the day arrived; September first, the day that the Hogwarts Express would leave platform 9¾. The Holmes family could hardly use Floo Powder in this case an Apparition was also out of the question, so they had to rely on their butler's driving skills to get them to King's Cross. Once there, they dumped everything on a trolley and they went for platforms nine and ten. Mycroft pushed his trolley forward silently and took big, pompous steps towards the fence separating the two platforms. Since Sherlock had waved Mycroft off before, he knew how to get on the platform, but it was his first time with the heavy trolley. It took a bit of manoeuvring but he made it, and the big, shining red train met him when he arrived.

His mother soon followed and she led him to the carriages; Mycroft had already disappeared to find his "assistant", whose name he still hadn't given. Together, they lifted his trunk onto the train and Sherlock went to find an empty compartment, where he put his trunk. He walked back to say goodbye to his mother, who still stood on the platform.

'Take care, Sherlock,' his mother said, giving him a hug. 'Write to me, okay?'

'Yes,' Sherlock said dryly, returning the hug awkwardly. 'As long as you don't write back.'

Mrs Holmes chuckled and let go, smiling as tears formed in her eyes. 'Goodbye. Have fun.'

Sherlock's mouth twitched in what only people close to him would know to be a smile and he raised a hand in goodbye. 'Later, Mum.'

Sherlock went to his compartment, which was still empty except for his trunk, and he sat down, looking through the window, watching the other wizards and witches on the platform. He couldn't deny he felt jealous of all the kids with dads, Muggles or not. He wished he'd had a little more time with his before the Battle took him. But if his father had had to die, he couldn't have thought of a more heroic way than dying while fighting The Dark Lord.

Suddenly, a sharp whistle sounded, cutting through the air and all the Hogwarts students ran for the doors, which were already closing. White smoke surrounded the people on the platform and a few seconds later, the train was moving.

Sherlock stretched himself out on the cushions, preparing for a long ride. He got his books out of his trunk – _Hogwarts: A History_ – and started reading. The book had been updated since the Final Battle of Hogwarts had occurred; now there was an entire chapter devoted to the Battle fought at Hogwarts and won by Harry Potter.

The compartment door opened and Sherlock looked up, mildly irritated. A boy of his age stood half inside the compartment, trunk and owl cage beside him. He looked nervous. 'Can I come in? The rest is full...'

Sherlock nodded and turned his attention back to his book. He crossed his ankles and rested them on his trunk, which was in front of him. The boy hesitated a second longer before dragging his own trunk inside the small compartment, setting the cage with his owl on the sofa opposite Sherlock. He sat down and looked at him and realisation hit him.

'Hey! I remember you,' he said. 'You're... Sherlock, was it? I met you in Diagon Alley.'

Sherlock frowned and looked up, finally recognising the small boy as the same one he'd walked into at Flourish and Blotts. 'John,' he remembered.

John nodded and smiled. 'Yeah. So,' he said, a bit hesitantly. 'What year are you in?'

'This is my first year at Hogwarts, if that's what you mean.' Sherlock's eyes were still on his book.

'Yes,' John said, a bit nervous around the tall, dark haired boy opposite him. 'Me too.'

It stayed quiet after that. John, not being a person enjoying empty silence, tried to make small talk. 'What are you reading?'

'_Hogwarts: A History_.'

'Any good?'

Sherlock nodded and, to John's utter surprise (and happiness) he said, 'It's about the Final Battle of Hogwarts. Somehow that's always fascinated me. My mother used to tell me stories about it when I was little.'

'Mine did too,' John said. 'I always liked the one about the Triwizard Tournament and the return of Voldemort.'

Sherlock chuckled. 'Yes. That's always been one of my favourites.'

'What are you reading now?' John asked, shifting in his seat to make himself comfortable. He was satisfied with himself – Sherlock had seemed a bit distant and cold, but John had cracked that appearance within minutes.

'About how Severus Snape died,' Sherlock said with a frown. 'No doubt you know of it; during the Final Battle of Hogwarts, Snape was called upon by Lord Voldemort, to meet him in the Shrieking Shack – the demolished house just outside Hogsmeade. Harry and his friends Ron and Hermione went after him in secret, trying to get close to the snake Nagini. But they witnessed a horrible murder; Voldemort thought the Elder Wand belonged to Snape and he let Nagini bite him. And Harry Potter went to talk to him, and it was then that Snape gave him the memories that would ultimately lead him to the Forbidden Forest...'

John was silent; this part of the legend always gave him chills. 'It's actually a beautiful story,' he muttered. 'About love, pain, and loss, and war.' He hesitated. 'My uncle died fighting.'

Sherlock looked at him, his head slightly tilted. 'My dad...' he whispered, closing the book and putting it on the seat next to him.

'I'm sorry,' John said.

'It's okay,' Sherlock told him. 'I don't really know him – I was one year old. I could've talked to him, if we... if we had a moving portrait of him. But we don't.'

'They really move, don't they? The portraits? I'm a half blood, but my mother was always careful around magic stuff. My dad knows, though, but I think Mum is just scared people will notice.'

'They won't,' Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. 'Muggles really believe what they choose to believe. Anyway... I think you might like this...'

Sherlock bent forward, opened his trunk and got out a newspaper. He handed it to John, who took it and grinned; it was _The Daily Prophet_. He looked through it, the articles, the columns, the moving pictures. 'You're pureblood, then?' he asked lightly, spreading the paper on his knee.

Sherlock nodded. 'Yes. Not the bad kind, mind you. My dad fought the Death Eaters, he wasn't one of them.' His tone was defiant.

'I never said he was,' John said, raising his eyebrows and smiling when he saw Sherlock's nonplussed expression.

'That's not what people normally say.'

'What do they say, then?'

'"Piss off, Death Eater"'.

John chuckled and shook his head. Soon, Sherlock was laughing too; it felt strange, laughing. The sound was foreign to his ears and the feeling of joy was almost new.

'What House do you want to be Sorted in?' He surprised himself by asking.

'I hope it'll be Gryffindor,' John said ponderingly. 'My mum was in there. I know that nowadays even Slytherins can be quite okay, but if it isn't Gryffindor I think I'd be quite disappointed...'

'I understand... sort of,' Sherlock said, looking at John with bright eyes. 'My entire family's been in Ravenclaw, but I'm not sure I want to be. I'd like to avoid my brother,' he said with a smirk, but John sensed that there was something more that bothered him. 'Ravenclaws are expected to be the best, to get the highest grades. I don't want that, I could care less about studying. I hope to end up in Gryffindor, too...' he said softly.

'Well, let's not worry about it too much, eh?' John said lightly, trying to lift his new friend's spirits. 'I think I can hear the food trolley.'

He was right; moments later, the old woman pushing the food trolley came by, asking; 'Anything from the trolley, dears?'

John, who hadn't had much of the wizarding sweets other than the few, bright times in his childhood that his mum could bring some home with her, bought at least one of almost everything. Sherlock looked at him from under his eyebrows when he loaded the stuff on the sofa next to him.

'You want some?' John asked him, holding out a Chocolate Frog.

Sherlock simply looked at the little blue box and muttered, 'Transport.'

'Sorry?' John said, throwing him the Frog. Sherlock caught it without looking at it and put it down again.

'Transport, John. I only eat when I am not occupied.'

'Well, you're not.'

Sherlock raised one eyebrow, thought for a moment, and then said softly; 'Good point.' Slowly, he picked up the box again, opened it and took the small Frog between his thumb and index finger. He studied the struggling thing with an amused look before he bit off its head, chewing with a satisfied grin.

John followed his example. 'Occupied with what, if I may ask?'

'Work.'

'I kind of figured.'

Sherlock sighed. 'Okay, it may sound silly to you, but that's because you're ordinary. No, don't look like that,' he added hastily when John raised an eyebrow, insulted. 'Practically everyone is.'

'And you're not?'

'Well, no. What I do, it's called deduction. I observe and I deduce from the things I see. It's very useful in most situations. Let's take you, for example... You've already told me an awful lot, but I can still deduce that you've got a younger sister named Harriet, you're worried about your father – possibly because he is a Muggle, more likely because he's recently made a huge gamble concerning his work. Your mother bought you that owl because she is concerned about you, she wants you to stay in touch with her and she wants you to have company should you need it.'

John's mouth hung open. 'Hell, I don't even know half of that,' he said, a smile creeping onto his face. 'That's brilliant! But – how in Merlin's name could you have deduced that just by looking at me?'

Sherlock smiled and began explaining. 'Your trunk; you've opened it a few minutes ago to get your money. I could see a letter on top of your clothing, written by a girlish but sloppy handwriting. Must be a sister, unless you're very good friends with a younger girl, or you have a close relationship with a cousin of yours, but since your uncle died in battle that would be unlikely, since you'd have mentioned her. So, sister it is. Now, your father – when I mentioned mine, you frowned and reacted as though it was personal for you. We've just met, so that isn't possible. It must be about your own father, then. Your mother is a witch and you're a half blood, which means that your father is a Muggle. I can just tell by the look on your face that you're worried about him, whenever certain subjects pass by you think about him, such as work. And lastly, why your mother bought you that owl; it's quite obvious, why else do mothers buy their children a pet which can deliver letters?'

It took a few seconds for John's brain to catch up. When it did, his grin only broadened. 'Merlin's beard, Sherlock! That was...'

'A bit not good?' Sherlock asked, suddenly unsure.

'Fantastic,' John breathed. 'Absolutely fantastic!'

Sherlock smiled again – no one had ever called his deductions "fantastic". He nodded to the pile of sweets next to John and grinned. 'Every Flavour Beans, then?'

'Sure,' John said, opening one of the few boxes containing the beans. He'd only had one of these before, and the experience had been odd, to say the least. Some were delicious; chocolate, cherry, blueberry or vanilla, but there were also a few that he found absolutely disgusting; liver, black pepper, sausage, dirt... There were endless flavours, and it didn't just go by box.

Sherlock went to sit next to him so they could eat together. John stuck his hand inside the box and grabbed a handful of the tiny snacks. He held it out to Sherlock, who decidedly picked a rich brown one. John chose a red one – always safe, he reckoned – and together they took their medicine.

Both immediately coughed, laughing loudly at the other's red face.

'What did you get?' John asked Sherlock as soon as they were done laughing and scraping the horrible flavour off their taste buds.

'Cinnamon,' Sherlock said. 'Can be quite nice but not in these quantities...' He coughed again. 'You?' he asked with watering eyes.

'I'm not sure... It tasted a bit like iron. Oh, God – I think it was blood!'

Both started laughing again and they picked another bean. This time, Sherlock was successful; he picked green apple. John was not so lucky; he had to make do with cardboard.

They enjoyed themselves quite nicely with the Every Flavour Beans, but soon it began to grow darker as they drove further up north. Sherlock suggested they get into their uniform and they dressed quickly, cleaning up all the sticky sweets from between the cushions of the sofa. Sherlock had seen his mother do a quick cleaning spell about a thousand times and he tried to imitate it, but as it was usually nonverbal he wasn't very lucky.

They gathered all their things and walked out when the train jolted to a halt, emerging on a small platform in Hogsmeade. A loud voice boomed over the heads of the students, attracting attention from all the first-years.

'First-years, 'ere! This way, first-years!'

Sherlock and John looked at each other with a smile before dropping off their things and walking towards the half giant. Rubeus Hagrid was waving his arms, gathering the first-years in one big group in front of him. Sherlock and John waited patiently for all the others to join them and then Hagrid set off, humming happily under his breath and pointing out all the things around them, like ancient trees and shops in Hogsmeade.

After walking for a while they came at the bank of a lake – the Black Lake. Sherlock could see dozens of small boats floating in the black water over the faint light of Hagrid's torch.

'Get in, yeh lot! We wouldn't want yer to waste time, now don't we?'

And so they got in; Sherlock and John shared a boat with a small boy, dark haired and Irish by the sound of his accent, and a girl with dark skin and wild, black, curly hair. It took a while before anything happened – Sherlock was looking at the water, ignoring the beautiful stars, looking for the giant squid. But when they rounded a corner, a brilliant light came into view; they were the torches and the windows of the castle of Hogwarts.

John gaped; Sherlock gaped; all the students looked at the massive building in awe. Seeing it on pictures was nothing like seeing it in real life.

'Take a good look!' Hagrid bellowed. 'Yeh'll not be seein' it like this again!'

The boats reached the other end of the lake and the students climbed out, following Hagrid who showed the way up the winding path upwards, lighted by dozens of torches. Eventually, they reached the stone porch and Hagrid instructed the kids to stay behind him when he knocked on the oak front doors.

It stayed eerily silent for a while, but then the doors opened, revealing a man in his mid-twenties, wearing simple robes.

Neville Longbottom looked better than ever when he greeted the new first-years.

'Come in! Let's get you Sorted!'

* * *

**Author's Note:**

#Edit; We've deleted a few bits about Sherlock talking to his dad in the study... That never happened. More on this in later A/Ns.

**We have based the wand woods on the actual list of woods from Pottermore. JK Rowling (who is the most magnificent woman in the entire universe) wrote it from Ollivander's point of view. Here are the Cedar's (John's) and Sycamore's (Sherlock's.)**  
**We hope you liked the story so far! Leave us some love. :)**

**Cedar**

**Whenever I meet one who carries a cedar wand, I find strength of character and unusual loyalty. My father, Gervaise Ollivander, used always to say, 'you will never fool the cedar carrier,' and I agree: the cedar wand finds its perfect home where there is perspicacity and perception. I would go further than my father, however, in saying that I have never yet met the owner of a cedar wand whom I would care to cross, especially if harm is done to those of whom they are fond. The witch or wizard who is well-matched with cedar carries the potential to be a frightening adversary, which often comes as a shock to those who have thoughtlessly challenged them.**

**Sycamore**

**The sycamore makes a questing wand, eager for new experience and losing brilliance if engaged in mundane activities. It is a quirk of these handsome wands that they may combust if allowed to become 'bored,' and many witches and wizards, settling down into middle age, are disconcerted to find their trusty wand bursting into flame in their hand as they ask it, one more time, to fetch their slippers. As may be deduced, the sycamore's ideal owner is curious, vital and adventurous, and when paired with such an owner, it demonstrates a capacity to learn and adapt that earns it a rightful place among the world's most highly-prized wand woods. **


	2. The Sorting Ceremony

**2. The Sorting Ceremony**

The waiting in the room next to the Great Hall was agonisingly slow. Professor Longbottom had told them to wait until he came to fetch them again, but everyone was so nervous and panicky that the wait seemed longer than the five minutes it actually was.

Professor Longbottom opened the door again and everyone held their breaths. 'Form a line,' he said in a friendly manner, 'and follow me.'

He led them outside, gathered them in front of the huge doors of the Great Hall and, with a smile, opened them.

The room was huge – the ceiling was high (if there was a ceiling; all you could see was the starry sky from outside), and there were five long tables. The teachers were seated on one, the rest of the Houses were seated together. Professor Longbottom walked between two of them, the students following him. When they reached the teacher's table, he stopped and faced the students after putting down a stool with a ragged old hat on it. Sherlock knew what would happen next; it would sing about itself and Hogwarts and the Houses. When the rip near the base of the Hat moved, Sherlock rolled his eyes but said nothing. He lost interest after a few lines, though and started to inspect the ceiling instead.

The Hat finished and the Hall erupted in a polite applause, and then professor Longbottom spoke up again.

'I am going to call your name and then place the Sorting Hat on your head,' he announced. 'It will determine in what House you will be placed. Adler, Irene!'

A girl, pretty for her age, walked forward with determined steps and sat down on the stool, letting the big Hat fall over her dark brown hair.

'RAVENCLAW!' it shouted and the girl walked to the cheering table.

A few more "A's" came next before a funny incident occurred. A boy with a seemingly permanent sneer on his face was called forward – Sherlock only caught his last name, Anderson – but when he sat down to be Sorted, the Sorting Hat opened its mouth and murmured, 'Hmm... I haven't had this in a while... A Squib! What to do with you? I can't put you in any of the Houses... Lack of talent, lack of ambition, lack of loyalty and bravery... What to do, what to do...'

Sherlock looked at John in confusion. 'This has never happened before,' he whispered. 'Not that I know of, at least. But what _do _you do with a Squib?'

The boy looked hurt and angry, even more so when professor Longbottom snatched the Hat off his head. He looked at the Headmistress, who stood up and gestured towards the far corner of the room, where a man in shaggy robes stood, a cat in his arms. 'This is unfortunately a highly uncomfortable incident,' she began in a steady voice, 'and it has seldom occurred. I would recommend, Mr Anderson, that you go and talk to our caretaker, Mr Filch, and ask him for you to be his assistant this year. It would be unfair to send you home.'

The boy got off the stool, red in the face. He walked reluctantly to the man, who looked at him in a more friendly manner than he had ever looked at any student at Hogwarts.

'Resume the Sorting!' professor McGonagall said.

'Brook, Richard!' professor Longbottom called. The small, Irish boy with whom Sherlock and John had shared their boat with stepped forward. The Hat obscured his dark, sparkling eyes as it called; 'SLYTHERIN!'

After this, the girl from their boat, named Sally Donovan, ended up in Gryffindor, and more students were spread across the Houses. Sherlock waited in intense anticipation, more scared than he wanted to admit, until –

'Holmes, Sherlock!'

He stepped forward, smiling at a reassuring touch on the elbow from John. He tried to breathe properly, he tried to stop his legs from shaking like jelly. He sat down on the stool and felt the Hat go over his dark curls as professor Longbottom placed in on his head.

A voice suddenly spoke up in his head.

'_Ah, another Holmes. What's it going to be, Ravenclaw? There's definitely some talent there, oh yes, I can see it. But I can also see a great will to prove yourself, and ambition... what about Slytherin? It would help, you know... Ah, but there is more! Loyalty! So much loyalty, that is typically Hufflepuff. And then remains your courage... Gryffindor will surely welcome you, for the same reasons as Slytherin... What will it be...?_'

Sherlock frowned. Slytherin? The Hat didn't even consider Ravenclaw? But he didn't want to be in Slytherin! He wanted Gryffindor...

'_Are you sure...? You could be great, you know._'

I can also be great in Gryffindor, now go ahead and Sort me!

'_Alright, if you say so... _GRYFFINDOR!'

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief when the Hat called out the name of the noble House. Grinning, he took the Hat off and walked towards the cheering table, enjoying the look on Mycroft's face way too much. He was the first of his family to have been Sorted in Gryffindor; really Sherlock, to be the only one, to be unique.

John smiled at him and now it was Sherlock's turn to give him a reassuring brush of the hand.

The Sorting went on, and "Riley, Kitty" and "Moran, Sebastian" were Sorted in Slytherin, "Sawyer, Sarah" in Ravenclaw and "Knight, Henry" in Hufflepuff. Then it was John's turn. When professor Longbottom called "Watson, John" his brain seemed to have gone numb. All he thought was _please Gryffindor, please Gryffindor_ and he was hardly aware that the Hat was already on his head.

A few seconds and then –

'GRYFFINDOR!'

John almost ran to the table, a big smile on his face. Sherlock smiled back and sat beside him. A few older students introduced themselves ('Greg Lestrade, Captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team') and so did the Gryffindor ghost ('_Sir Nicholas_, please'). One girl was left ("Yao, Soo Lin") and she too was greeted by the loud cheers from the Gryffindor table.

Professor Longbottom removed the stool and the Hat and took place at the teacher's table, right next to professor McGonagall, who rose and spread her arms. 'Let the feast begin!'

The long tables were suddenly filled with food ad spotless gold plates and cups. John instantly realised that his stomach was growling loudly; he filled his plate with fried chicken and chips and peas and carrots. When he was eating happily he looked at Sherlock, whose plate was close to empty.

'Aren't you going to eat something?' John asked him, his mouth full of mashed potatoes.

'I am eating,' Sherlock said, waving at the small pile of baked potatoes in front of him. 'Besides, you already stuffed me with those sweets...'

'Right then, suit yourself,' John said, leaving Sherlock to poke his food around his plate. He couldn't ignore him for long, though, and soon he asked him again, 'When _do _you actually eat?'

'I told you, I am eating now,' Sherlock said, genuinely confused.

'Yes, but let's be honest – it isn't that much... Do you ever, you know... stuff yourself full with whatever you can find?'

'Like you're doing now?' Sherlock chuckled.

John looked at his plate and smiled; there were lots of chicken bones, sloppily eaten to the bone, a big pile of chips, the last bits of a sauce and at least ten different kinds of vegetables. 'Sort of,' he laughed. 'But I've got an excuse – I haven't eaten like this in years. Feels good to finally afford it, you know.'

'Yeah,' Sherlock said. 'I don't know, I guess I'm never really hungry. Well, there are periods in which I don't eat for days, but –'

'Days? Sherlock! And you don't starve to death?'

Sherlock shook his head. 'Well,' he said with a smile, 'I confess I do feel quite hungry after those periods, but if I eat on a regular basis...'

John scoffed and chose a chicken wing next. 'These are really good, though,' he said, his mouth full.

'So are the potatoes,' Sherlock said, pointing his fork at him, from which one baked potato hung pathetically. 'Cheers.' And he stuffed it in his mouth.

John chuckled, shaking his head. He took a sip of his pumpkin juice – a refreshing drink, tasting nothing like it sounded – and finished the rest of his chips, vegetables and mashed potatoes.

Dessert came and John immediately forgot about his stuffed stomach; there were lovely puddings, pies, cakes, ice creams and waffles and custards. John had difficulty choosing, but eventually decided on a big piece of treacle tart and smiled when Sherlock loaded a big portion of dark chocolate pudding on his plate.

'What?' he said when he noticed John staring at him.

'Nothing. Pudding looks good,' John choked.

Sherlock raised one eyebrow and slowly, one corner of his mouth curled upwards. 'Okay, I have a weakness for chocolate pudding. Done laughing?'

'Not really,' John said and then changed the subject, not wanting to upset Sherlock. 'So, professor Longbottom will be teaching us Herbology, then?'

'Yes,' a voice to John's left said. It was Greg Lestrade, the seventeen year-old boy who had introduced himself to the two new first-years. 'He's been here for a few years now, quite soon after he left Hogwarts ten years ago. He's the Head of the Gryffindor House, and quite rightly so – he used to be good friends with Harry Potter. Still is, from what I've heard. Whenever Mister Potter visits the school to help professor Thomas and professor Finnigan on Defence against the Dark Arts for one lesson, they always get together, the four of them. Sometimes Mister Weasley joins him. It's always amazing to have such legends at the school.'

'So Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan both teach Defence Against the Dark Arts?' Sherlock asked. 'Interesting. They were also in Dumbledore's Army, weren't they?'

Greg nodded. 'And of course loads other kids back then, but they've all gone separate ways. I heard they still hang out every once in a while. I mean, they've been through so much together.'

John nodded thoughtfully. 'When you think about it, it must have been quite horrible.'

'I was six years old during the Final Battle of Hogwarts,' Greg told them. 'And even at that age I could sense that something wasn't quite right.'

John shivered. 'I actually just realised we are in the room where Voldemort died. And even though he did get defeated, so many others died before him...'

Greg just nodded, a grave expression on his youthful face. 'You know, when they rebuilt Hogwarts, they made another hallway in the castle with portraits of all the people who died by Voldemort's hand. It's horrible to think how long that corridor is...'

They were quiet for a moment. Greg broke the silence with a melancholy smile. 'Anyway, everything's fine now. As fine as things can be, I suppose. McGonagall really is a fine Headmistress; she's been here after Snape died and she'd been doing really well even since.

'Greg,' John asked, 'Who are the Heads of House for the other Houses?'

'Well, you've got Flitwick and Slughorn, they are the Heads of Ravenclaw and Slytherin, and then there's professor Stapleton; she teaches Arithmancy and is Head of Hufflepuff.'

They talked a bit more, also with the rest of the Quidditch team and their fellow first-years, about Hogwarts, Quidditch and Harry Potter. But then the desserts disappeared and the plates were spotless again. The chatter around the Great Hall quieted down as professor McGonagall rose from her golden chair.

'I have only a few announcements to make,' she said, her voice echoing impressively through the room. 'First of all, mister Filch would like to inform you that all products from Weasley's Wizard Wheezes are still forbidden, as is doing magic in the hallways. Furthermore, I'd like to tell the first-years that the Dark Forest on the edge of Hogwarts grounds is strictly forbidden. Now, prefects; take the first-years of your House to their dormitories and class will begin tomorrow morning. Goodnight.'

Greg smiled at them. 'Later, mates.'

John smiled and went to find a prefect, Sherlock on his tail. They waited for all the Gryffindor first-years to join them and then the two prefects – a girl and a boy – set off into the Entrance Hall, the first-years trailing them. They climbed the marble staircase and followed dozens of corridors and finally they reached the Gryffindor tower.

'As some of you may already know, the staircases move,' the girl prefect said. 'So be careful around those, they can be very stubborn. Oh, and there is one fake step on the stairs; best to step over it if you don't want to get stuck.'

They halted in front of a giant portrait of an enormously fat lady, who looked at them with a smile and asked, 'Password?'

'Decoy Detonator,' the boy said, and the portrait opened, revealing a big hole in the wall. They climbed through it one by one, entering a large, round common room, warmly lit by a fireplace, tapestries on the walls and tables, chairs and sofas placed close together.

'Girls' dormitories are to your right, the boys' are left,' the girl said, waving her arms in the general directions. 'Your things have already been brought up.'

Most of the first-years immediately went up to their dormitories, like Sherlock and John. They shared their room with three other boys, named James, Carl and Jack. They set out to make up their bed in the small, round room – Sherlock having taken the bed at the far end, John next to him, the window between them – and got into a casual conversation.

'My parents are Muggles,' Carl said casually, folding up his robes, which had now turned red – like the rest of the Gryffindor first-years. 'Was a bit of a shock for us at first, though. I was convinced it was some sort of prank.'

'I'm half blood,' James said. 'Dad's a wizard. Hadn't actually told my mum until I was born.'

'My mum told my dad before they started kids,' piped up John. 'Luckily he accepted it, otherwise I wouldn't be here.'

'I grew up with magic,' Jack said. 'You, Sherlock?'

'Pureblood,' Sherlock said softly. 'Does it matter?' He didn't bite it out, he was genuinely confused.

''Course not, mate,' Jack laughed. 'We're just chatting is all.'

'Oh,' Sherlock said, apparently not getting it. 'Well, okay then.'

'So, you and John,' Carl asked, trying to change the subject. 'You've known each other before today?'

'No, why?' John asked, putting on a white T-shirt as pyjama top.

'Well, you seem really close,' Carl remarked. 'But I suppose you're just hitting it off right, then.'

John and Sherlock frowned at each other and shrugged. They all got into bed, stayed talking for a while and slowly, one by one, they fell asleep.

Sherlock was the last to sleep. He thought about what Carl had said; he and John seemed really close, apparently. Sherlock didn't know what that meant, exactly; he didn't know much about friendship, he'd never had many friends. But he did know one thing; he enjoyed John's company and he wasn't planning on losing it just yet.

* * *

The next morning, an excitement hung thick in the air, it was almost touchable. Everyone was glad to be back at school – or new at school – and classes were about to start again.

They received their schedules at breakfast; they sorted it all out with professor Longbottom, their Head of House, and then it was time for their first class of the year; Potions. John noticed that Sherlock was quite excited; potions must be something he enjoyed or found fascinating.

Professor Slughorn awaited them in the dungeons, his big belly even bigger than it had been ten years ago. A few cauldrons were behind him, different colours of smoke evaporating into thin air.

'Welcome, class,' he said happily. 'Please, take a seat. Let's start, shall we?'

John and Sherlock sat together and opened their books. Carl, Jack and James sat opposite them while the Slytherins – with whom they shared the class – sat on the other side of the room (even though Slytherin House had improved on its students, Gryffindors and Slytherins were still each other's natural enemy).

'So,' professor Slughorn continued. 'First class on year – first class Potions ever for you, in fact! Lovely! Now, as you can see there are a few cauldrons behind me. Take a look and tell me what potions they're filled with. I hope you've been reading ahead.'

'I certainly haven't,' John whispered to Sherlock, hoping that Slughorn didn't hear him. Sherlock smirked, because he _had _been reading ahead. Ever since he had bought his school books in Diagon Alley he had been flipping through them, looking for interesting information, and he had found that he enjoyed potions a lot.

* * *

Time passed by quickly while the students, studied, smelled, touched and at times even tasted the potions – something of which Slughorn highly disapproved. 'Don't taste the potions, please! For all you know there might be a Draught of Living Death or a Strong Polyjuice potion turning you into _me_ for a couple of weeks! And you wouldn't want that to happen, now, do you?' He had said with a vague smile on his face.

Sherlock wondered how many times something had gone wrong in his class. Had a student ever died because they had tasted the wrong kind of potions? That would be fascinating…

John and Sherlock teamed up with Jack and James and, with the four of them, they walked past the cauldrons, attempting to identify the potions.

The fourth cauldron they came across contained a fluid that constantly changed colour. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and instantly asked the others what they thought it smelled like.

'I think it's sort of… I don't know… It smells like forest, if you ask me. The smell of wood and leaves. Bit like smoke, too,' James told him.

Jack shrugged, before admitting he thought it smelled like home. 'But my home definitely doesn't smell like wood, if that's what you're thinking!' he added hastily.

Sherlock looked at John, who simply shrugged. 'It's this smell I can't really place, it's a bit… I don't know… Why, what do you smell?'

Sherlock ignored the question. 'It's a love potion,' he stated. 'It has to be. Amortentia, to be specific. Amortentia is the only potion that smells different to everyone.'

'Excellent, Mr Holmes,' said professor Slughorn, who happened to pass by their cauldron, 'Ten points to Gryffindor!'

He clapped his hands, in order to attract everyone's attention and pointed at Sherlock's group. 'I hope everyone heard how Mr Holmes described the love potion in this cauldron? I want all of you to write that down. Also, pay a visit to the library and look up three different kinds of love potions. I want you all to hand an essay about them next week. Make sure it's at least one hundred words long.' He looked at the clock on the wall. The hand pointed to the right, where it said 'End of Class'.

'Alright. That's it for today,' Slughorn called out, 'Clean up your stuff, don't leave anything behind and enjoy the rest of your classes!'

Just before Sherlock and John walked out, Slughorn patted him on the back. 'I am impressed with you, Mr Holmes. You might just make a good potions master later…'

'Thank you, sir,' Sherlock said politely. He then turned his back on the professor and strode out the classroom, a smirk on his face.

He had just earned his first house points for Gryffindor! While several other Gryffindors congratulated and thanked him for the first ten house points of the year, he couldn't help thinking about Mycroft's face. Ever since Mycroft had been going to Hogwarts, Sherlock had had to listen to the hour long stories about him earning points for Ravenclaw. Sherlock's brother had loved to boast about how brilliant he was in class, and how he had earned the most points of _all_ the Ravenclaw students and so on, and so on. Sherlock felt proud to know that he, too, could now earn house points and he promised to beat his brother in the House Cup. His thoughts were interrupted by John, poking him in the side with his elbow. 'Look,' he said, pointing at two other boys.

The Irish boy who had been called forward as "Brook, Richard" during the Sorting Ceremony was talking to James on the other end of the hallway and now signalled them over. The two Gryffindors glanced at each other and walked up to them.

'So you're Sherlock Holmes, aren't you?'

Sherlock nodded.

'I was talking to your friend here,' he gestured at James, 'He said you knew every single potion in the room. Convenient, isn't it?'

Sherlock frowned, not comprehending what Brook meant. 'What is?'

The Slytherin boy chuckled, 'Having a friend who boasts about you. That way, you don't have to do it yourself.'

'Do what?' Sherlock sneered. He didn't like the way Brook was talking to him.

'Boast, of course. As long as others point out how brilliant you are, you seem so humble yourself…'

'I…' Sherlock didn't know what to reply. Luckily, John did.

'Shut up and move.'

He shoved Brook against the wall, and pulled Sherlock along. They quickly made their way out of the dungeons. Sherlock decided he didn't just wanted to beat Mycroft in the house cup. The Slytherins were going down as well.

* * *

**Sorry that this chapter is significantly shorter than the first. We're obviously not regular in breaking off chapters. However, if there's a good point to do it then so be it. :) Sorry for the long wait as well. School's been a bit of pain in the arse.**

**We hope no one's having trouble accepting Sherlock and John both as Gryffindors. But we really wanted them in the same house - it's important for the plot - and their personalities are so different it could only be Gryffindor. But yeah, we tried to play with it a little. Hope you had fun reading and leave us a review!**


	3. Neville Longbottom

**A few notes beforehand; We're sorry it took so long, and for our other stories as well. We're just really busy at school and we don't have any time to write, like, not ANY. It bothers us and hope you understand. Furthermore, we hope you are all not too upset about Sherlock being a Gryffindor; it was necessary for the plot.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**3. Neville Longbottom**

The second class of the day was Herbology, which they shared with the Hufflepuffs. To Sherlock's annoyance one of the Gryffindor prefects showed them how to get to the greenhouses. 'If the other students would just study the map of the Hogwarts grounds, they wouldn't have to show us around,' he complained.

They were walking alongside the rest of the Gryffindors who, according to Sherlock at least, were overly excited. Carl kept pointing at every tree and told his fellow students everything he knew about them. 'I can't wait to see the Whomping Willow! There are very rare, you know? I even heard that –'

Sherlock sighed and turned to John, hoping that his friend would be just as bothered as himself. But to his surprise, John kept his eyes fixed on waving flags near the Quidditch pitch. 'Legends were born there, Sherlock,' he whispered, 'Oh, I can't wait to see the first match of the year!'

'Hmm,' was all Sherlock replied.

The prefect finally stopped in front of the glass doors of the greenhouses. The building looked different from what the students had expected. No books or stories every paid much attention to the greenhouses and the only drawings and pictures the students had seen were from the time before the War.

'It's a bit different from what it looked like in my days.'

The entire class turned around to face professor Longbottom who, apparently, had made his way from the castle to the greenhouses without any of the students noticing it. He made his way through the group of Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs, who all stared at him in anticipation, and waved his wand a few inches away from the door. '_Alohomora_,' he muttered.

He entered a big, circular classroom and beckoned the first years to follow him.

He smiled and waited patiently for them all to take their seats. 'I'm professor Longbottom,' he said, when the last two Hufflepuff girls finally stopped giggling, 'I'll be your Herbology teacher for the years to come. Hopefully.'

He laughed, and some students (mainly the Hufflepuffs) did too, but most of the first years didn't get the joke. A Gryffindor boy raised his hand, 'How do you mean, "hopefully"?'

Professor Longbottom scratched his chin, 'Well, Hogwarts has got a very odd history when it comes to teachers, doesn't it? Werewolves, mad men, death eaters… you name it! Now, to get started –'

But before Neville Longbottom could finish his sentence, a Hufflepuff girl raised her hand. 'Yes?' Professor Longbottom said, gesturing that she was allowed to speak, 'Oh, and what's your name?'

'Phyllis Peters.' While she spoke, her cheeks turned a flaming red, but after a comforting look from professor Longbottom, she seemed less nervous. 'You saw what happened to all those teachers. Don't you think there's some sort of… curse?'

It seemed as if the entire classroom held its breath. Most of them couldn't even believe that Neville Longbottom was teaching them Herbology. He was a living _legend,_ according to most of them. They all wanted to hear his stories about Harry Potter and the days of the Second Wizarding War.

Professor Longbottom understood, for this had happened nearly every year, since he'd been teaching at Hogwarts, when the first years met him. 'No,' he laughed, waving his hand, 'I don't think any of the jobs are cursed. And besides, it were mainly the Defence Against the Dark Arts teachers who turned out to be… different than most of us.'

'What about Severus Snape? He didn't teach Defence Against the Dark Arts!' The girl next to Phyllis Peters called out.

'Profes –' Longbottom stopped. After all these years he still often called Snape "professor". 'Snape was _also_ a Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, miss…?'

'Bones,' the girl whispered, 'Amelia Bones.'

Professor Longbottom's face brightened, 'Bones?' he asked, 'Are you by any chance related to Susan Bones?'

'She's my mother. Named me after her aunt.'

'Quite right too. Madam Amelia Bones was a brave woman, she stood up to Voldemort and…' he didn't finish his sentence as he saw a few of the first years shiver at the mention of the Dark Lord's name. 'I assume you know the rest of the story?'

The Hufflepuff girl nodded. 'He killed her in person, I know. And I'm so proud.'

'And you should be. Not to mention your grandparents, they were in the first Order of the Phoenix, and your mother herself! How is she doing?'

'She's doing really good. Even told me to say hello to you.'

'Give her my regards when you go home, will you? Now, let's get started. Open your books on page –'

'Sir?' Another boy called out. 'My uncle fought in the War! Did you know him?'

'And mine?'

'What about Harry Potter?!'

'Do you ever speak? Do you ever see him?'

'I've always loved the stories about Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger!'

'Luna Lovegood!' 'Draco Malfoy!' 'The Grey Lady!' 'Dumbledore!' 'The Chamber of Secrets!' 'The Horcruxes!' 'The snake! Nagini!' 'Harry Potter's Patronus!' 'Dumbledore's Army!'

Old names came up and good stories were told that hour. Sherlock quietly listened and observed, enjoying the tales told. Especially the ones he hadn't heard before, which were mainly told by professor Longbottom himself. Unlike John, who asked as many questions as the rest of the class, Sherlock remained silent. He thought of his father, and wondered whether their teacher had known him as well, but he didn't dare ask.

John told the full tale of his uncle. 'He knew Harry Potter, he did! Talked to him, all the time! Even saved his life on the battlefield. The rest of my family say that the Boy who Lived wanted to thank him for that after the battle was over, but by then it had been too late. Mum says he was very brave…'

Professor Longbottom became less enthusiastic and all the more quiet as time passed by. He let the children share their stories without interrupting them, unless absolutely necessary. The answer to the student's question became shorter and abrupt and Sherlock could tell that the man was close to being overwhelmed by emotions. He could tell by looking his body language. At the beginning of the class Longbottom had stood up tall and had seemed so proud, but as time passed by the smile on his face had disappeared and he seemed to have shrunk. He kept quiet as if he'd wanted to fade into thin air and Sherlock wondered whether this is who Neville Longbottom had been, before he became the legend he was now.

Just a boy, like any of the students here, who didn't want to be noticed at all. Perhaps he had never wanted to be the hero he was now, perhaps he'd just become one…

Either way, as annoying and dull people usually were, professor Longbottom was neither, Sherlock decided. The man was rather fascinating.

Five minutes before the class ended, professor told his students to collect their books and leave the Greenhouses. Before he opened the doors, though, he said to them; 'Now remember, this is your last period for today, so you've got the rest of the day to yourselves. Make it a good one.'

Some students left immediately, curious to see the rest of the castle and its grounds. Others stuck around a little longer to ask professor Longbottom even more questions. Sherlock and John were amongst the first to leave, although both of them went to thank professor Longbottom.

The professor grinned at John and thanked him for his "marvellous stories" about his uncle. At shaking Sherlock's hand, he remarked that the boy had been very quiet during his class. The Gryffindor boy nodded.

'You're a Holmes, though, aren't you?'

Sherlock nodded again. 'Yes, I am. But I'd rather not be reminded of that.'

'Family issues then?' Longbottom laughed, 'I know the feeling.'

'I didn't know you had siblings!' one of the Gryffindor girls shouted.

'I don't, it's just that I –' he sighed, 'Oh, never mind.'

He turned to continue his conversation with the younger Holmes brother, but to his surprise the boy and his friend had disappeared.

It was early in the afternoon and both boys were looking forward to the rest of the day. After their lunch in the Great Hall they decided to go and examine other parts of the castle. They were just about to leave the Hall when a tall boy made his way towards them. He pouted his lips disapprovingly as he tapped Sherlock on his shoulder. 'I think all the first years have written to their families to tell them how they got Sorted. Not you, I think? Of course not, you wouldn't even talk to your family if they were right in front of you, would you?'

'Get out of my way, Mycroft,' Sherlock sneered at his brother and he stepped towards the entrance doors of the Great Halls. Mycroft got in his way, though. 'I already wrote to mummy,' he said, 'She'll be surprised to hear you didn't get Sorted into Ravenclaw, like me.'

John instantly decided that he didn't like Mycroft Holmes. He seemed cocky and John would bet the three Sickles in his pocket that the prefect considered himself better than anyone else at Hogwarts.

'Get. Out. Of. My. Way. Mycroft,' Sherlock repeated. After a big sigh, Mycroft stepped out of their way and without further ado Sherlock left him standing in the middle of the Great Hall. John, a bit mind blown at what had just happened had to recover before rushing after Sherlock, but Mycroft held him back. 'John,' he said, while he gave him a piercing glance, 'Look after my little brother.'

John couldn't even utter a 'what?', that's how confused he was. Instead he nodded, a bit absentmindedly, then ran after his friend.

He caught up with him in the courtyard, where they nearly bumped into a group of first year Hufflepuff, still talking about their Herbology lesson. The two boys quickly made their way through the different groups of students. John accidently knocked a second year Slytherin over and hastily apologised, trying to avoid any form of trouble. The Slytherin turned and shouted a loud 'Scum!', but no more than that, before facing his mates again and laugh at some other new first years.

John followed his friend across the covered bridge that led to a part of the castle grounds. Unlike many other students they didn't stop to read the memorial sign. It told the story of the old bridge, which had collapsed during the Final Battle of the War. But both boys knew the story and were too eager to see more of the castle to stop and think about what had happened there ten years ago.

They finally stopped when they arrived in the Stone Circle. A patch of grass surrounded by giant white rocks. Sherlock sat down next to one of the stones and looked out on the rest of the grounds below. John perched down next to him. It took him a while before he said anything. Not sure whether he should mention Mycroft yet, he pointed to his right. 'Look,' he said, 'It's the Owlery.'

Sherlock followed his friend's finger and nodded. There, on the top of a small hill, stood indeed the new Owlery. 'I should probably go there soon,' John continued, 'I'd better send my mum and dad a letter.'

'If this is Mycroft talking…' Sherlock said through clenched teeth,

'It's not!' John replied immediately. But he knew he was lying… Mycroft's words had had a bit of an impact on him. He should've written to his family right after he got Sorted into Gryffindor. He had even promised his little sister to do so. He sighed.

'Come on, let's go there,' he said. Sherlock, however, didn't make an attempt to get up. 'Sherlock! Come. On!' John nagged while tugging the sleeve of his friend's uniform. But Sherlock didn't budge.

'I'd rather have a look down there,' he whispered, his voice lower than it had been before.

'But that's the Forbidden Forest,' John gasped, 'We can't go there, Sherlock, it's dangerous!'

'Don't be ridiculous, I don't want to go to the forest. I just wanted to see what _else_ is down there.' Not waiting for John to reply, he jumped up and ran down the hill. John bit his lip in hesitation, them muttered 'Oh, sod this' and sprinted after him.

He had to try real hard not to stumble over his own feet and when he finally came to halt at the edge of the hill, he was glad to have made it in one piece.

'Are you alright?' Sherlock asked him. John had trouble getting his breath back, but nodded, rubbing his slightly sprained ankle. He looked up at Sherlock who looked around proudly, as if he owned the surroundings. Then he spotted a tall figure in the distance, walking around a patch of what appeared to be pumpkins.

'Is that…' John began, but his sentence was cut short by Sherlock who finished it resolutely.

'Hagrid.'

Even though the man was gigantic (and not just in height), neither John or Sherlock had been intimidated with the friendly man. Of course they'd heard the most wonderful stories about him concerning Harry Potter, which helped trust and admire him.

'Mycroft says he's a horrible teacher and not even as friendly as everyone always says,' Sherlock told the other boy. John raised an eyebrow, not really believing what he was hearing. He had always thought that everyone considered Rubeus Hagrid to be one of the best and nicest men at Hogwarts.

'He even said we better avoid him as long as we can,' Sherlock continued. Then, to John's surprise, that familiar smirk appeared on his face. 'So, what do you say, John? Should we go and meet him properly?'

John didn't get time to reply, because the silhouette of the half-giant waved at them and signalled them to come over.

'Oi, you two, over 'ere!'

'What're yer names then?' he asked, as soon as the two Gryffindors arrived at his pumpkin patch.

'I'm Sherlock,' Sherlock said, 'And this is John Watson.'

'Sherlock?' Hagrid asked, 'Sherlock who?'

Sherlock sighed, hating that he had to tell the half-giant his last name. 'Holmes.'

'Holmes?' The man asked, a frown on his face, 'Mycroft isn' yer brother, is 'e?'

'I'm afraid he is.'

'Yer look alike,' Hagrid smiled, 'But yer not in the same 'Ouse are you?'

Sherlock shook his head.

'So… yer not that bright as 'im, then?'

'Oh,' Sherlock said, a surprised look on his face, 'I am clever. I'm not such a smart arse as he is, though.'

Hagrid laughed heartily and slapped the boy on the back. John couldn't suppress a grin when he realised Hagrid's laughter sounded remarkably like Santa Clause's "hohoho".

'It takes great courage to say that 'bout yer own brother, Mr Holmes,' the giant chuckled, 'I can see why yer a Gryffindor. Proud o' it?'

'Definitely,' Sherlock grinned. He sighed in relief as he realised that Hagrid didn't like his brother much either and, unlike most teacher probably would, admitted it to him. 'Anyway, what I wanted yeh for… Yer firs' years, would yeh mind givin' me an 'and?'

'A hand with what?' John didn't feel like doing something really gross for the giant and – according to stories he had heard – there was quite a chance that Hagrid would ask the first years to do some nasty jobs for him. John sighed in relief, though, when Hagrid gestured at the pumpkin patch. 'They need a bit o' sprayin', don' yeh reckon?'

Sherlock was hoping for Hagrid teaching them a spell or two to spray the pumpkin plants, but instead he both gave them a gigantic watering can that took the pair of them to carry.

'One, two, three… Pour!' John shouted time and time again. At "pour" they both bent forward to let the water drip out of the can, onto the pumpkins. It was hard work and it took them about forty-five minutes to water all the plants, but they didn't mind it. Hagrid watched them, looking very pleased, and eventually told them to stop.

'Thanks fo' yer help, yeh really didn' have to,' he said, but the look on his face told both boys that the giant was more than pleased with their help. Besides, the bags under his eyes gave away how tired he was. Sherlock guessed he had been at Hogwarts before any of the students, or teachers even, had arrived. His answer was confirmed when the giant showed them his cottage, not so far away from the patch. 'You live here all year long?' John asked in disbelief. Hagrid nodded. 'An' been doin' tha' for ages. They'd be los' withou' me, 'ere. Can you imagine what would happen to the grounds if I weren't there to take care of 'em?'

The boys shrugged, not sure what to say.

'It's all alright,' Hagrid said in a soothing voice, 'I don' mind all the work, it's a pleasure workin' 'ere, it is. Even after the War, with Dumbledore gone, it's an alright job. Not ter mention, I'm still a teacher, too.'

'And a brilliant one, too, I think?' John laughed. Hagrid blushed slightly and tried to hide his face in his bushy beard.

'Well,' John said after they hadn't spoken for a while, 'We should be going. Bye, Hagrid!'

'Wai'!' he called after them, 'Don' yeh wanna stay and drink a cup o' tea firs'?'

The boys looked at each other, they weren't sure. They really did like Hagrid, but they wanted to go back to the castle as well. 'Sorry,' John answered eventually, 'We should really be heading back.'

Hagrid nodded, looking a bit disappointed. 'It's alrigh'. I understan'. Well, eithe' way, don' be a strange', will yeh?'

Sherlock and John nodded simultaneously and promised they'd pay another visit soon. Then they turned around and walked the path that led all the way up to the castle.

It was nearly six when they finally arrived. They walked the long corridors, on their way to the Gryffindor common room when they bumped into Neville Longbottom again.

'Afternoon, boys,' he greeted them.

'It's the evening, already, Sir,' Sherlock corrected him. As soon as he had said the words, he regretted them. He didn't want to sound like Mycroft, who always corrected everything and everyone. To his surprise, though, professor Longbottom smiled at him and muttered, 'Ah yes, of course. Thank you… Mr Holmes, wasn't it?'

Sherlock nodded, happy to know that his teacher had to think about the name instead of knowing immediately who he was related to. 'Well then,' he continued, 'Enjoy the rest of your evening. I'd go to the Great Hall as soon as possible, if I were you. The food in the beginning of the evening is always slightly better than later on…' He briefly winked at them and then resumed his walk.

'Are you hungry yet?' John asked Sherlock while they climbed the stairs to Gryffindor tower. To no surprise, Sherlock shook his head. 'Are you?'

'No,' John lied. He did feel hungry, but he didn't want to go downstairs and eat by himself. He would wait for Sherlock to get hungry as well, so they could have dinner together.

Little did John know that Sherlock wouldn't feel hungry for at least another twelve hours…

John woke up the next morning, his stomach growling. He grunted as he sat up. He should've joined Carl, Jack and James when they went downstairs last night. Oh, how he regretted not having dinner… He slowly got up and shivered as his feet touched the cold floor of their dormitory. All the other boys were still fast asleep, except for Sherlock, whose bed was empty. John went to have a look in the common room, still wearing his pyjamas, where he found Sherlock – dressed and all – sitting in front of the fire place. If there would've been a fire burning, the picture would've made sense. But John really didn't understand why Sherlock was staring at the brick wall of the fire place, when there were no flames to look at. 'Hey, Sherlock,' John began, 'How long have you been up?'

The other boy shrugged and put his finger against his lips, ordering John to be quiet. John raised his arms in order to protest but sighed, realising it would probably be pointless.

'I'm heading downstairs,' he continued, 'Joining me?'

Sherlock shook his head and rested his chin on his knees. 'Not hungry. I'll meet you in class.'

John shrugged. If the stubborn Sherlock wanted to starve himself, then so be it. 'Suit yourself,' he said, then sighed and went back upstairs to fetch his time table and get dressed.

Their first period was History of Magic, alongside the Ravenclaws. Lots of Hogwarts students always said that History of Magic was one of the most boring classes at Hogwarts, and that they had never met a person – or a ghost, more likely – duller than professor Binns.

After getting dressed he quickly poked James' stomach and told him it was time to get up. He then left the dormitory, rushed past Sherlock in the common room and climbed through the portrait hole.

He sat down at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall, next to Greg Lestrade, who eyed him fondly. 'You're up early,' the seventeen-year old remarked.

John snorted when he reached out for the box of Surreal Cereal. 'Right back at ya,' he laughed.

Greg grinned and sipped his tea. 'We've got Quidditch practise in a bit,' he explained, 'Not with the entire team, of course, just the three of us,' he gestured at his friends, 'Getting ready before the new season starts.'

'Mind you,' one of Greg's friends said, 'It's illegal practise, really. Madame Hooch doesn't even know we're going to use the pitch.'

'Oi, Samuel, keep your voice down, will you!' The third boy hissed. He then smiled at John and winked. 'You could come with us, if you like,' he suggested, 'Just come and have a look.'

John had almost accepted the offer when one of the blonde girls across the table coughed.

'You can't take the boy with you, Greg,' she giggled, 'He's got classes to attend. He's only a first year! You can't expect him to play truant already.'

John didn't like the way she talked about him. How old did she think he was? Four?!

'Besides,' the girl continued, 'what does _he_ know about Quidditch? I'll bet you five galleons he hasn't even had his first flying lesson yet.'

Greg rolled his eyes. 'I wasn't going to bring him, Minnie,' he said through clenched teeth.

'Good. You could take _me_, though,' she said and, still giggling, winked at the Quidditch Team Captain.

Greg shrugged, then drew in a deep breath. 'Fine. Come along, if you must. I'm sure Colin will greatly appreciate it.' He laughed when he punched the third boy friendly on the arm.

'Come on, guys!' Samuel called out as he got up from the table. He led the way out of the Great Hall, Colin – who had wrapped his arm around Minnie – right behind him. Minnie winked at John dramatically. 'See ya, kiddo,' she said in a mocking voice.

Greg, however, seemed in no hurry and got up rather slowly. He shook John's hand and smiled at him. 'Later, Watson.'

And, after he had started to make his way to the big doors of the Great hall, he turned around once last time and called; 'Make sure you come and meet us at the pitch soon!'

John sighed. He furiously wished that he had the guts to run after them and skip his first class of the day, but to his own regrets he didn't dare. He liked Greg a lot, though, and promised himself to go and witness him practise later that year.


End file.
